"Poetry is a universal language..." - William Hazilitt

"Poetry is the silent voice that is heard everywhere inside of us..." - Unknown

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Ode to Video Games

When I feel like jumping on turtles for coins

Playing on single player so my friends can't join

When I feel like a dungeon must be solved

To save a princess as the world revolves

When I feel like killing people with no repercussions

With guns, nukes, and causing explosions

When I feel like I messed up and want to rewind

So I can try that jump again for the fifth time

When I feel like eating blue ghost for a period of time

To make make sure they don't haunt me and my 3 lives

When I feel like I want to watch a loading screen

For hours and hours with no breaks in between

When I feel like using a gun that shoots tornadoes

Or calling in satellite lasers on the say-so

When I feel like taking some drugs from little girls

Or suiting up ready for an underwater world

When I feel like leveling up to maximum and more

So I can beat the final boss with a really long sword

When I feel like I want to kill a god for revenge

With blood and gore over and over again

When I feel like I want to see our capitol after a nuke

Fighting for my life versus radiated spooks

When I feel like I want to beat the crap out of my little brother

Without the medical bills and authorities at bother

When I feel like being the worlds greatest rock star

With absolutely no idea how to play a guitar

When I feel like reality is getting a little insane

I just go escape into a video game

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Sonnet to Parent's Worst Nightmare

I am the baby devourer, fear me

I've come to eat all of your infants LOL

Enemies try to stop my tyranny

As I head for you day-cares, pre-schools, and all

Citizens are like 'Oh my god Becky'

When I decide to feast in the open

Meanwhile the superheroes can't stop me

Toddlers alike are prayin' and hopin'

I'm going to destroy all my enemies

And then they'll be dead, because I killed them

Evil, my cannibalism makes me

A fear on all my name they condemn

But parents rejoice you won't see me again

I now terrorize trees as a vegan

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At the Mercy of Helios

The sun stands proudly in the sky

Gracing everything with it's glowing touch

Except me, as I have fled into the shade

Beads of sweat traces the outline of my face

As if they were small painters and my face a canvas

They add constant layers of wet paint

I stalk the iron rods that surround my treasure

That will release my skin from it's scorching torture

My eyes strife the area

Where everything seems to be it's own source of light

The brightness demands my eyelids to squint, in which they follow to the letter

I fully squint my eyes until there is no more bright

The darkness envelopes me

I'm in the purest shade but my body is still being slow cooked

Then the sound waves of salvation crashed into my face

My eyes snapped open like a trap

Tripped by my prey called curiosity

I left my shelter of cool as my clothes try to merge with my skin

Hordes of children were in earshot and getting closer

Like a car accident met a train accident

The loudness of the kids worried me if it was sweat or brain

Trickling down the side of my face

As the gatekeeper acknowledged us entrance

We all may our way to physical enlightenment

The pool was finally open

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Let's get something clear: I am a horrible poet. I love telling stories and being descriptive but I can't write poetry to save my life. On the other hand I am quite good at finding rhymes, but that's about it. When I write poetry I try to make it as entertaining as possible, so if I'm given a prompt I try to bend it to my will, for example, our odes. I did my Ode to Videogames because I knew I would enjoy writing and rhyming about videogames. There's another thing I do to make my poetry adventures fun, and that's make it funny for my little brother, because if I have to make it enjoyable for atleast one person, and why not the gut I can relate to most? These are usually my inspirations when writing poetry which helps me get by in poetry assignments.

Even so, with my horrible poetry skills, like all poets, I must have a them to my poems? I kind of do. I like to make stories with twist at the end, maybe it be funny, sad, or scary but I love making stories with a twist, because it can engage a reader or even make them give your poem more than one read through. I like writing, not even so horror, but bloody poems about murders and things, but that just ties in with my personality of being a ted bit off my rocker.

I enjoy writing poetry as much as the next guy but I might want to consider getting better. One of my problems would be consistency, either I make a line completely unlike the other line, or I start sounding like Shakespeare one moment and then me another. So then my poems sound dumb and uninteresting. Nevertheless it's not a problem that can't be fixed and maybe I'll better myself for future poem.

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Sharon Olds

The End

We decided to have the abortion, became
killers together. The period that came
changed nothing. They were dead, that young couple
who had been for life.
As we talked of it in bed, the crash
was not a surprise. We went to the window,
looked at the crushed cars and the gleaming
curved shears of glass as if we had
done it. Cops pulled the bodies out
Bloody as births from the small, smoking
aperture of the door, laid them
on the hill, covered them with blankets that soaked
through. Blood
began to pour
down my legs into my slippers. I stood
where I was until they shot the bound
form into the black hole
of the ambulance and stood the other one
up, a bandage covering its head,
stained where the eyes had been.
The next morning I had to kneel
an hour on that floor, to clean up my blood,
rubbing with wet cloths at those glittering
translucent spots, as one has to soak
a long time to deglaze the pan
when the feast is over.

In the poem "The End", by Sharon Olds, it starts out how a young couple went to get an abortion and how they discussed it in their bed when another couple crashed in their vehicle out side. Sharon Olds is known for writing poetry from the perspective of women and their everyday life, so it's no surprise her poem is about the days after a woman after her abortion and how she felt. Olds wanted to display a scene where a couple reflects on how they became murders together when they went along with the abortion. When the woman sees the bodies being removed from the car she says, “Cops pulled the bodies out Bloody as births from the small, smoking aperture of the door…” it reminds the woman of her earlier abortion and how the concept of a baby being born usually results in someone dying didn’t play out in this scenario. She had killed her child and someone had died, as if death was surrounding her as a punishment for her act.

The Mortal One

Three months after he lies dead, that
long yellow narrow body,
not like Christ but like one of his saints,
the naked ones in the paintings whose bodies are
done in gilt, all knees and raw ribs,
the ones who died of nettles, bile, the
one who died roasted over a slow fire—
three months later I take the pot of
tulip bulbs out of the closet
and set it on the table and take off the foil hood.
The shoots stand up like young green pencils,
and there in the room is the comfortable smell of rot,
the bulb that did not make it, marked with
ridges like an elephant's notched foot,
I walk down the hall as if I were moving through the
long stem of the tulip toward the closed sheath.
In the kitchen I throw a palmful of peppercorns into the
saucepan
as if I would grow a black tree from the soup,
I throw out the rotten chicken part,
glad again that we burned my father
before one single bloom of mold could
grow up
out of him,
maybe it had begun in his bowels but we burned his
bowels
the way you burn the long blue
scarf of the dead, and all their clothing,
cleansing with fire. How fast time goes
now that I'm happy, now that I know how to
think of his dead body every day
without shock, almost without grief,
to take it into each part of the day the
way a loom parts the vertical threads,
half to the left half to the right like the Red Sea and you
throw the shuttle through with the warp-thread
attached to the feet, that small gold figure of my father—
how often I saw him in paintings and did not know him,
the tiny naked dead one in the corner,
the mortal one.

In the poem "The Mortal One", by Sharon Olds, it begans with a woman making a meal in her kitchen, a soup to be more specific. As said before, Sharon Olds is known for writing poetry from the perspective of women and their everyday life, which lead the main character of this poem to start recolating on her father who had past away. In the line, "throw the shuttle through with the warp-thread...", at first this line made little to no sense to me, but after visiting the dictionary more than once I started to make sense of it. The line was a metaphor on how she goes about each day with as little grief as possible, by taking it apart and splitting it down the middle, the way a loom does when sewing. The woman was trying to get over the death of her father by pointing out good things, for example she was pleased that they had cremated her father before he could decompose .

May 1968

When the Dean said we could not cross campus
until the students gave up the buildings,
we lay down, in the street,
we said the cops will enter this gate
over us. Lying back on the cobbles,
I saw the buildings of New York City
from dirt level, they soared up
and stopped, chopped off--above them, the sky,
the night air over the island.
The mounted police moved, near us,
while we sang, and then I began to count,
12, 13, 14, 15,
I counted again, 15, 16, one
month since the day on that deserted beach,
17, 18, my mouth fell open,
my hair on the street,
if my period did not come tonight
I was pregnant. I could see the sole of a cop's
shoe, the gelding's belly, its genitals--
if they took me to Women's Detention and did
the exam on me, the speculum,
the fingers--I gazed into the horse's tail
like a comet-train. All week, I had
thought about getting arrested, half-longed
to give myself away. On the tar--
one brain in my head, another,
in the making, near the base of my tail--
I looked at the steel arc of the horse's
shoe, the curve of its belly, the cop's
nightstick, the buildings streaming up
away from the earth. I knew I should get up
and leave, but I lay there looking at the space
above us, until it turned deep blue and then
ashy, colorless, Give me this one
night, I thought, and I'll give this child
the rest of my life, the horse's heads,
this time, drooping, dipping, until
they slept in a circle around my body and my daughter